


No Lady by your Lights

by satinflowers



Series: George said these characters are straight and I said no they are not but I fw you for trying [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:28:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26211193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satinflowers/pseuds/satinflowers
Summary: ""This is what I love about the North," She said, voice rising about the roaring chatter around them, "no matter the weather, the cold, the wind, there's always someone to share it with. We Northmen are few and far between, not like you southroners, so we must stick together." Even as Asha protested her southron status, she was laughing."Gay people in the North marching on Winterfell what crimes will they commit 😗✌️
Relationships: Asha Greyjoy & Theon Greyjoy, Asha Greyjoy/Alysane Mormont
Series: George said these characters are straight and I said no they are not but I fw you for trying [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1903570
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	No Lady by your Lights

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place somewhere between adwd and twow and its not great in terms of continuity but whatever <3 there are like 7 fics in the alyasha tag but I will change that god willing

It was nigh on three months of grueling travel through the freezing Northern wilderness when Roose Bolton's men were sighted by Stannis' scouts. A vast force it was, but composed of Freys and Manderlys and other such men that held no value to the supposed Warden of the North. It inspired as much fear in Stannis Baratheon's meager army as it did eagerness. The Dreadfort's men far outnumbered them, but it was a vanguard of green boys and greybeards, expendable men with expendable lives, not a hardened warrior among them.  _ Besides the Bastard of Bolton and his lot, though Theon would admonish me for calling him so.  _ Ramsay and his men were cruel, vicious, and would stop at nothing to regain Arya Stark and his  _ Reek.  _ More like than not, they would prove more than a match for the weak, fatigued soldiers that were Asha's captors. That was not to say those men were not battle ready. Stannis' men, ( _ the ones that could walk, at least), _ were itching for fight, for the coppery taste of blood to sting their lips, to have dying men scream with fury or with pain rather than collapse silently by the fire, a peaceful end in their sleep. Asha understood the feeling. It was a coward's death, to die in his sleep, and she found it contemptible.

After weeks of trudging through dirtied, knee-deep snow, dining on raw horse meat and bony fish, and watching their fellows succumb to the cruel northern climate, their goal was finally in sight. A battle was in sight, Lord Bolton and his forces were in sight. The Bastard of Bolton, along with the chance of revenge for his crimes against Ned Stark's  _ valiant little girl _ , was in sight. The North, with all of its power and influence, was in sight. 

Personally, Asha Greyjoy could not have cared less. The thoughts that filled her heard were not of protecting the Stark girl, nor of taking back the North, not even of defeating the Bastard of Bolton. No, the only things worrying her these days was the fate of her brother. 

Theon Turncloak, as the men of Stannis' forces were prone to call him (despite the flash of rage Asha felt whenever they used the name in her presence), was to be executed. It was only a matter of when.  _ And how _ . The worshippers of that strange red god of Asshai insist he should be given to the flames, to placate both their god and the bitter Northmen, aggrieved still over the deaths of Ned Stark's young sons. The more lenient of Stannis' followers, as well as Asha herself, would allow Theon the small consolation of falling to a headsman's sword, same as his foster father before him. In fact, he would die a happier man than Eddard Stark, losing his head before the weirwood trees of the North, rather than in front of a screaming crowd upon the steps of the Sept of Baelor.  _ A man should always die among his countrymen. _ No one deserves to die alone and hated, not even Eddard Stark, for all the sorrow he had caused her family. Not even Theon, for all his crimes, deserved that death. 

Asha had already relented in the battle for her brother's life. This stubborn southron king accepts no ransom, no bribery, no excuses.  _ He shall have his head, one way or another _ . All Asha can do is ensure less suffering on her brother's part. The best he can hope for is a swift, clean strike.  _ In the end, it's all any of us can hope for. Theon's end simply comes sooner than the rest. _

At best, he had a month to live. At worst, he will be dead by weeks' end, after Arnolf Karstark and his traitorous men are put to death. Stannis, influenced by the followers of the red god (especially the red witch, Melisandre, who Asha had yet to meet) and by Karstark's own refusal to surrender information, had decided the Karstarks would die by fire, sacrifices to the Lord of Light, as they call their god. The Karstarks no longer have a negotiator to fight for their right to a good clean death. _They are Northmen, and yet they will die by the hand of a false god, a god not even from the reaches of Westeros, but from across the Narrow Sea._ _They are traitors, same as my brother, I suppose_. _My brother who I aim to protect, despite his wrongdoings, yet I cannot muster a bit of sympathy for them_. Try as she might, she could not find it in herself to feel pity for these men. _Perhaps I have room for only one turncloak in my heart._

°°°°°°°°°°°

The execution of Arnolf Karstark and his kin began at daybreak, four days after they discovered his treason and the advancements of the Bolton army. The previous day had been spent shaking and shivering, trying to complete the traitor's pyre before night fell and the cold truly set it. Asha had watched from her cabin the crofter's village, enveloped in thick furs, as the unlucky men chosen for the task struggled, chopping wood or breaking up collapsed wagons and heaving it onto the ever-growing stack surrounding a barren, snow-covered weirwood tree. The Northern gods had no place among the devotees of the Lord of Light, so their sacred trees would burn along with the sacrifices. She'd stood, contemplating the scene that would soon become one of horror, would soon be filled with the wails of burning, dying men, pleading for their lives. She kept at her watch until the pyre sat completed and empty, the men retired to their own cabins (or, the unfortunate ones simply returned to the warmest spot of ground), and she remembered she ought to be sleeping. Alysane was already slumbering, her heavy snores filling up the cramped cabin.  _ With snores like that, it was no wonder her father was rumored to be a bear _ . Still, Asha thought as she stretched beneath the heavy furs, they had become part of her life, same as Aly, and were queerly comforting, in an odd way. Looking at Alysane, she felt a strange sense of sadness. Aly would soon depart for Castle Black, taking Lady Arya with her. Asha treasured these moments they could still share. The recent heavy snows prevented the two from leaving just yet, but as soon as the snow let up, they would head North.  _ There goes all the friends I had in this wretch of a camp, with Massey off to Braavos after them.  _

Asha ignored those thoughts, soon drifting off to sleep, Aly's snores echoing in her ears, the other woman's soft breath warming her neck against the icy air. She dreamt of the Karstarks, burning alive, screaming without mouths. She dreamt of the Bastard of Bolton, of every form of torture he had inflicted upon her brother. She dreamt of Alysane Mormont, the woman beside her, clasping her hand as masked figures in red robes dragged her brother to a flaming pyre. Most of all she dreamt of Theon, har baby brother, her mother's last surviving son, losing his head below the white branches of a grinning tree. When she picked up his decapitated head, he, too, was smiling, as bright red blood-  _ or was that sap? _ \- dripped from his severed neck. 

When she awoke, she could not recall any dream at all. 

°°°°°°°°°°°

Morning came, though the color of the sky did not change, white nearly blotting out the bright winter sun. The snow had been seemingly endless since they had left Deepwood Motte. More men fell to the foul weather than any of the battles Stannis had fought in his quest for the Iron Throne. The entirety of Stannis Baratheon's army crowded inside the cramped village, pressing themselves forward in the hopes of reaching the pyre that would soon be ablaze with fire and traitor's screams. Winter was coming, and fires were growing scarce in this frozen wasteland, nearly devoid of trees and wood, so the men took what they could get. 

The traitors stood despondent in their icy chains, the growing crowd of men shouting obscenities at them. Asha had a perfect view of the spies, sitting behind Stannis on the newly-erected platform as he addressed the crowd. The king watched the crowd, a grim look upon his face, which was not uncommon for him. Aly had told her Stannis's smiles came few and far between, and since learning of the death of his Onion Lord, that smuggler-turned-knight Davos Seaworth, he had stopped smiling altogether. He was not quick to anger, but neither was he quick to forgive. He regarded Asha and her Ironborn with a thinly-veiled layer of disgust.  _ And his ambition is like to get us all killed _ . All told, he was an unpleasant man. The was not to say he didn't have his virtues, however: he was just, and honorable, as good a strategist as his elder brother had been in battle, but Asha had come to dislike this stern southron king. Asha much preferred the company of Alysane and Justin Massey.

Alysane herself was beside her, Theon tucked in some hidden corner, restrained where the Northmen could not find him. Could not revenge themselves against him for what he did to the Stark boys. Asha had little doubt they would not be waiting for vengeance much longer. 

Stannis' booming voice suddenly drew her attention, calling for order within the ranks of inflamed men goading on the execution. The men looked ready to storm the prisoners and kill them themselves. But Stannis raised his weapon, the strange glimmering sword he called  _ Lightbringer _ , the bright colors of the sword turning the snow red and yellow and orange, and silence fell. 

"Men," he called, nearly shouting to make his voice heard over the whistling wind, "today is the day you have been waiting for. Today, these turncloaks, who went over to the boy king's beasts rather than their rightful ruler, will pay for their attempted crimes with their lives. Today, you shall have the king's justice." His words were greeted with silence, until a thick-bearded Northman that Asha recognized for Morgan Liddle spoke up in a deep, rumbling voice. 

"What about the kraken, the one who killed our little lords? Where's his  _ king's justice _ ? The North remembers,  _ King _ Stannis, and we want BLOOD!" The crowd, further inflamed, roared its agreement. One grew so bold as to throw a small dagger at the king. Others, mainly Northmen, followed suit, throwing a variety of objects, though none were close enough to make contact. Asha gritted her teeth as the dissenters were dragged away to the wooden cells that served as the crofter's village jail.  _ If they hate my brother this much, how can I expect to save him? _ Despite the whistling of the wind, Asha could almost hear Stannis grinding his teeth in front of her. The men continued to murmur, though no more became violent. 

"Soon, you will have your revenge for the Stark boys." Stannis promised, to a grumble of discontent from the crowd. Middle Liddle and his men glared up at the balding king, but didn't make any further complaints.

"Soon, you shall have revenge for their deaths, but today, you must be satisfied with the corpses of traitors." A low rumbling from the crowd told her this would not placate them for long. The Northmen were angry that Stannis was burning people, the queen's men angry that he was not burning enough. 

Without waiting for their word, Stannis turned and nodded to the guards around the Karstarks, his bald head gleaming in the winter sun. The guilty Karstarks were brought forward, unresistant, and were stripped of their warm winter clothes.  _ For what use have dead men for warmth? _

Shivering, they were strapped to the pyre's thick wooden spokes. Thoroughly shamed, they dipped their heads, avoiding eye contact with any of the jeering soldiers. Only one remained defiant: the patriarch, Arnolf Karstark. He held his head high, despite his crooked figure, staring Baratheon dead on, his cold grey eyes boring holes in the king. Unperturbed, Stannis spoke.

"Here are your traitors, the men who conspired to sell you to Bolton and his abomination of a bastard. Look upon their faces so you may see the man dishonorable enough to betray his own comrades." He turned to the Karstarks as the crowd booed and screamed profanities. Arnolf Karstark gazed down at the crowd, wrinkling his nose in disgust as his great grey beard blew in the wind. 

"Any last words?" Stannis said, stone faced as ever.

Most remained silent, staring down as if ignoring Stannis would somehow save them from their fate. Once again, Arnolf Karstark proved the only bold one amongst his kinsmen, speaking with pure malice in his voice. 

"I have no words for you besides this one, false king." He snapped, and spat on Stannis' face. His teeth were yellow and crooked as his back. To his credit, Stannis did not flinch, only stared at the traitors with naked disgust. He sighed, deep and slow, then nodded once. In a moment, the pyre was ablaze. Asha huddled close to Alysane, tucked her head into the crook of her neck and intertwined their gloved hands. The crowd cheered and booed in equal parts as the air filled with smoke, screams, and the foul scent of burning flesh. As the Karstarks burned, not a single man looked away. 

°°°°°°°°°°°

That night, sleep did not come easy for Asha. She tossed and turned on the scratchy, straw filled pallet, the screams of the burning men echoing in her ears. Every time she fell asleep, she would hear those same screams, coming from Theon's mouth. Alysane was not have an easy time of it either. Nor, it seemed, the rest of Stannis' encampment. The camp was alive, even at this time of night, and when it wasn't her dreams waking her, it was laughter. 

The moon was high in the starlit sky when Asha slipped out of her cabin, Alysane in tow, and took a seat by the communal fire beside Stannis's rotting yellow pavilion. An assorted group of high-spirited men-at-arms circled the fire, jesting and drinking, speaking of everything, it seemed, but the events of the morning. Among them was Justin Massey, the knight intent on claiming Asha for his wife, though he had as much chance of that as Tris Botley did. In that respect the two were similar, although Massey sought her hand for the wealth and power, not the woman. 

At any rate, he was at least on her side, which she could not say the same for many of the assembled men. She elbowed a red-haired knight bearing the fox of Florent on his breast to the side, flopping down on the bench left of Massey, Alysane to his right. Massey seemed surprised, dropping the fish he was deboning, but recovered quickly. 

"Lady Asha, Lady Mormont. What are you doing out so late? It's not safe for a lady to be out at this time of night." His voice was colored with concern, although the grin that teased at his lips said otherwise. 

Asha met his grin with one of her own. "That may be true for one of your sweet southron ladies, but that is not us." 

"Have you ever seen one o' them ladies wield an axe?" Quipped Alysane. Justin laughed. 

"True, true. Neither have I seen a southron lady in a pair of breeches. Carry on, then." The circle let out a hearty laugh at that. Asha smiled, and took a swig of the flagon that had appeared in front of her. Beside her, Alysane did the same.  _ The night is dark and full of terrors, yes, but that's nothing a flagon of ale and a jape at your lips can't solve.  _

A heavy weight settled on Asha's shoulders as Aly flung an arm around them to share some joke with her. Her breath hitched at Aly's touch, an unfamiliar yet exhilarating thrill in her chest. Asha leaned in closer, inhaling the scent of spiced ale, woody smoke, the distinctly Northern scents that clung to Alysane like perfume. 

"This is what I love about the North," She said, voice rising about the roaring chatter around them, "no matter the weather, the cold, the wind, there's always someone to share it with. We Northmen are few and far between, not like you southroners, so we must stick together." Even as Asha protested her southron status, she was laughing. 

There was something about Aly that made her feel…. different, from the person she'd been all her life. She could be someone new, someone worth caring for. The girl, her father's heir, the warrior woman, the captain, could be left behind. Her father, her mother, her brother, her uncles, Tristifer, Justin, even Qarl, they cared for her out of duty, out of necessity. She was a means to an end. 

Aly was different. Aly was good, and brave. She wasn't like the people Asha had grown up with. Her mother was absent, Uncle Aeron a pious fool, her father was apathetic when he wasn't actively cruel, Uncle Victarion crueler, Uncle Euron even worse than the two combined. The people of the Iron Islands were cold and hard and unforgiving as the sea because they had to be. Alysane, for all her surliness at their first meeting, was nothing of the sort. Growing up in the cold, hard North, she had every right to be. But she wasn't, and Asha- she thought  _ love _ was perhaps too strong a word, but it was close- loved her for it. 

She closed her eyes, smiling, and pressed her cheek to Aly's, both wind chafed and icy. She was hardly listening to the conversation around them, isolated in her little sphere of Aly, Aly,  _ Aly _ . Asha drifted off to sleep with the warmth of the fire, Alysane's comforting weight at her side, and the sounds of laughter, song, and joy filling her ears. 

In the early hours of the morning, after the other men had wandered off to their cabins in small clumps, Asha awoke to Aly asleep on her shoulder, snoring into her ear. Asha smiled despite herself and felt her features morph into a fond look, resting her chin on her forehead and stroking her hair. Unwilling to wake her, Asha watched as, one by one, the remaining men left, until the only one still seated at the rough wooden benches was herself, Alysane, and Justin Massey. There was a moment of silence between them before Justin rose, turning toward Asha before he left.

For a moment, Justin stared down at her, holding her gaze, before his expression shifted into one she'd never before seen on the boisterous knight: Something like displeasure, tinged with jealousy. He opened his mouth as if to say something, before seemingly reconsidering and grinding his teeth in a fashion that reminded Asha of Stannis. His mouth curved unpleasantly, and the smile lines around his eyes crinkled. For the first time, Asha realized this is a man dangerous when thwarted.  _ If only I knew what he feels thwarted by _ . He dropped her gaze and stalked off to his tent, without saying a word, weariness stooping his back. Asha watched his retreating figure as he disappeared into the night. Confused by his sudden resentment, she turned and, unthinkingly, planted a kiss on Alysane's forehead. 

Asha froze, a blush coloring her cheeks, but Aly snored on, loud as ever. In a flash, Asha understood why Justin looked at her with such jealousy.  _ Because of Alysane.  _ But that's- no- she doesn't care for Aly in that way. Asha had been with women, but never like this. She wasn't even sure what  _ this  _ was. Asha had always assumed their connection was borne from Asha's youth surrounded by boys, and Aly was simply her first friendship with a woman. But, thinking about it, Asha had only ever known this feeling for one other. Qarl the Maid, but even her love for him felt trivial, almost, compared to this. 

She thought back to the moments they had shared during their journey North. Alysane was the only one who protected her from the anger of Stannis' army, the only one who stopped them from burning Asha as they had the Karstarks _._ Despite being her captor, Alysane treated her with a level of respect never afforded to her by the others. The hours they'd spent by the fire, telling each other of their families, homes, adventures, growing to care for one another despite being kraken and bear. Asha wondered how she hadn't seen it sooner. _Perhaps I didn't want to._ She supposed she owed it to Massey, for helping her understand. For a fleeting moment, she was elated. _I know who I am. I know what I feel for her._ As quick as it came, it left, as Asha remembers Aly can never return her affections. _She has children, and a husband, once, you idiot._

_ No. It can never be. I was foolish to even consider it.  _ Why waste time on a woman who can never care for her the way she wants, when Theon's fate is in jeopardy? She felt like a fool for even considering the idea. She felt as though she'd betrayed Theon, wasting her energy she should be using to change the stubborn southron king's mind. No longer caring about Alysane's comfort, Asha stood abruptly and began to march to her tent. The sky was lightening with the first glimpse of the striking winter sun already. Behind her, Alysane woke groggily. 

"Asha? Where- where are you going?" Asha doesn't face her. She can't bear it. 

"It's almost light. Stannis will want us early. If you hadn't forgotten, the Dreadfort's men are barely a two days' ride." If Alysane was hurt by Asha's cool indifference, she didn't show it. She stood, brushing the snow from her shoulders, and followed Asha back to their tent.

°°°°°°°°°°°

The night before the battle was fraught with tension, even more so than it had been after the Karstarks were sacrificed. A scout had come running back to camp mere hours earlier, carrying the head of one of his fellows. The scout, barely more than a boy, had babbled, terrified, that Bolton was no more than a day away, and even that was generous. At that, he'd promptly collapsed with horror, the severed head Ramsay had forced him to carry for miles falling from his hands and rolling to a stop at Stannis' feet. Safe to say, everyone was on edge. 

There were three consolations Asha got from the coming battle: first, Theon's execution was postponed, which meant there was time. Second, Stannis had allowed her to fight alongside his men (he'd have been a fool not to, considering the damage she'd done to his army at Deepwood Motte). And three, a fight would take her mind off of Alysane. Asha had avoided her the past day, a difficult feat, considering Aly was her guard. She refused to face herself, and being near Alysane would only make it harder to resist doing so.

Asha pushed that thought from her mind and focused on the figure facing her.  _ Justin Massey, asking for my hand once more.  _ At this point, it was almost a tradition between the two. 

Asha reached for her axe, given to her along with her dirk in preparation for the battle, when Stannis Baratheon's booming voice turned the chattering crowd toward the king. He held Lightbringer loosely against his side, the glowing reds and yellows dancing across the gleaming metal. The sword, claimed by Stannis and his priestess to be proof he was Azor Ahai reborn, was the topic of many a rumor told around the breakfast table. Some claimed the sword really was magic, the reds and yellows of the fire hot enough to cauterize any wound made by the blade. Others said it was nothing but an illusion, the colors a trick of the light. Asha was more inclined to believe the second.

Nevertheless, the sword and the man were an imposing site. Heads snapped to attention, facing the king. He cleared his throat, the grinding of his teeth echoing across the hall. 

"Tomorrow we shall face the Bastard and his men on the field of battle. It will not be easy. Some, many, of you will die. But we  _ shall  _ persevere. We  _ shall  _ defeat these usurpers. We shall end this threat before they can end us. The rightful rulers will once again reign in the North!" 

A resounding cheer rose from the crowd, though Asha could not help but think Stannis said "rightful ruler" he meant  _ himself.  _

_ These Northmen grew used to independence under the Stark pup, and Bolton's reign has been marked by quiet rebellions. They will not take up the yoke of servitude to another lord easily.  _

But that was an issue Stannis would have to solve, should he claim kingship over the North. Right now, they had a much more pressing matter at hand.

°°°°°°°°°°°

The day of the battle dawned cold and icy, snow falling heavily and the ground growing slick with ice. The restlessness of the men was clear; everywhere, they were sharpening weapons, engaging in mock battles, and boasting of their skills they would soon demonstrate. Asha herself was eager as the rest, but unlike those who simply wanted to prove their prowess in battle, she had another target: the Bastard. 

Theon, with his missing toes, fingers, teeth, and various scars, was in no condition to face Ramsay. Even if he was, Asha doubted he would want to see the man who had tortured him beyond recognition, made him a shell of the person he used to be. So Asha would take revenge for him. Here, at least, she could fight for her brother. 

The sounds of preparation surrounded her as she hurried to her tent, pulling her furs up to cover her face. It had taken hours of convincing on Alysane and Justin's part to let her to live, and even more for even a few of Justin's fellows to look at her without growling or reaching for a weapon. Most were still mistrustful of her. Better to hide herself and avoid confrontation, no matter how much she wanted to put these fools in their place. 

Alysane was not in their tent, but Asha's weapons were. She stuffed the dirk her jerkin, the pair of throwing axes gifted to her after her old ones were lost at the Deepwood tucked in the scabbard on her back.  _ Aly must be with Stannis in his tent.  _ Last she had seen of Stannis, he'd been pouring over the map of the North in his tents, assisted by his maester and a dozen lords and knights. Asha didn't know what use studying some dusty old maps was; the field of battle was the one of the only forests they had seen on their journey, thick with trees and snow. You couldn't plan for that. 

Yet she shuffled toward his tent anyway, her recently-healed ankle throbbing slightly, hoping to see Alysane before the battle. To explain, maybe, or see her face one last time if it didn't end well. 

She heard the pavilion before she saw it. A booming voice echoed across the camp, loud arguing that could be heard from yards away. Asha stayed in the shadows of the trees and tents as she slunk toward the voices. When she entered the tent, no one noticed, too fixated on Stannis and the council he was fighting with. She backed into a corner as the argument grew more heated. 

"We  _ will  _ march on Winterfell after the battle! Bolton sends his bastard and the craven Freys and Manderlys after me, saves the real challenge with him. Wyman Manderly sits in Winterfell, secure. Do not think I have forgotten how he butchered my Onion Knight. I sent him to treat with Lord Lamprey, and he mutilates him and displays him like a common  _ thief _ . I will have Lord Lamprey's head, and the only way to do that is to take Winterfell." The men stood silent at his outburst. Then one of his maesters spoke up.

"Your Grace, of course we must march on Winterfell. But the men will be tired, wounded, after the battle. Better to stay and recover. We are secure here, and with any supplies the Boltons leave behind we can wait out the snow, then march at a less dangerous time. We should wait, starve them out. " Stannis's jaw worked furiously as he ground his teeth.

"If we stay here,  _ we _ starve, or we freeze. We have neither food nor supplies to survive a siege, not more than they do. Winterfell is warm and supplied and full of our enemies. We leave after the battle. No stops." A man bearing the sigil of a northern mountain clan grumbled his agreement, along with most of the tent. The maester, outvoted, backed away with an exasperated huff. 

"So it is agreed. We march on Winterfell as soon as possible." A sea of heads nodded their agreement. Asha felt herself nodding with them. 

Then Stannis saw her. His cold blue eyes flashed with anger. 

"You! Greyjoy!" The men turned at the name, faces morphing into expressions of anger. "Get out my tent. You are a  _ prisoner,  _ you have no business here _."  _ He turned his rage towards Alysane. 

"Get her out, Mormont!" Aly stode over to her swiftly and dragged her from the tent by her wrist. Stannis's small council stared at her as they marched outside. Once outside, Aly turned to her, anger plain on her face.

"What were you  _ thinking? _ That meeting was for Stannis's commanders and strategists, not a  _ prisoner. _ " Any intention Asha had of apologizing or making things right abandoned her.

"Whatever he does, I have to know! He could be planning Theon's execution, and I must know so I can prevent it! Theon  _ depends  _ on me. I have to help him, even if  _ this  _ is the only way." Aly only seemed to grow more angry.

"I would've told you whatever he'd planned! You didn't have to barge in, earn me Stannis's disapproval!" Asha was surprised.  _ Since when has she cared for the king's approval? _

"Why should you care what he thinks of you? He's not your true king, you've never believed that." Aly turned to her, a true rage on her face. Asha instantly regretted her words.

"No, he's not. He isn't, and he never will be. My _true_ king was Robb Stark, but the Boltons and the Freys and the Lannisters, they _murdered_ him, and his lady mother, and my _sister._ _He_ should be the one we follow into battle today, not Stannis. I loved him. We all did. He was good, and true, and he would have been great. But he's gone. And Stannis- he's no Robb, but he's the best we have. He promised us revenge for our king. If he can get it, we owe everything to him. _I_ owe everything." She was breathless by the end of her speech, her face flushed with passion and cold. Asha said nothing as Aly marched away from her, back ramrod straight. She didn't look back. 

°°°°°°°°°°°

Asha wiped furiously at the tears beading in her eyes as she stormed back to her cabin. She felt like a fool, a stupid child. She'd been trying to  _ apologize  _ to Aly, not fuel her anger more. She was so  _ stupid. _

Asha had her hand on the door when she realized Aly would be in the cabin, and drew her hand back like she'd been scalded. She hurried away from the cabin, to where, she didn't know, just anywhere  _ but  _ there. The layout of the little village was a mystery, and the abundance of people made it difficult to see where she was going.

She ended up in an abandoned storehouse, so tiny and rundown it could hardly be considered a building. Light filtered in from a hole in the wooden boards of the ceiling that did nothing to prevent the snow that fell day and night, and the back wall was on the verge of collapse. It was no bigger than her wagon had been, before it had collapsed and they'd had to scrap it for firewood. Nevertheless, its faults would serve their purpose well: none of the men had taken up residence in it, so there were none to intrude upon her privacy.

Asha dropped onto a wooden box on the dirt floor and buried her head in her hands. Her choppy black hair, grown halfway to her shoulders on the journey, was just long enough to hide her face had there been anyone watching. 

It took a minute to realize she was crying. That fact alone was shocking. In all her life, Asha Greyjoy had only cried twice. She hadn't cried when her mother would block herself from the world and refuse to talk to her. She hadn't cried when her father had barred the doors to his study and rebuffed her attempts to speak with him. She hadn't even cried when she learned that Maron and Rodrik had died. The only times she had cried was when the Northmen had taken Theon away, all those years ago on Pyke. And when she had seen Theon again, a gaunt, limping man who could barely speak, begging her to remember her name.

And here she was, crying over a woman, and a woman from Bear Island, no less. She was a fool, through and through. This close to the battle, what chance did she have of finding Alysane, of apologizing, of making things right? She'd ruined everything they'd had in a minute. She stared through the hole in the ceiling, letting snow drift down into her eyes. The storehouse was as peaceful as one could find in this mess of a camp. She might just stay here, wait out the battle. Never come out. 

But she couldn't just sit here and mope. She had a duty, to Stannis, to Alysane, to the army, to Theon. And while Stannis had grown lax on her security, the two guards that reported on her every hour or so would be looking for her. Whatever decisions she made about Aly, if any, would wait. She couldn't stay here.

Asha stood resolutely, wiping her tears on her furs, and kicked the dust of her boots. The rusty door creaked open and the sounds of the camp once more filled her ears. She gazed out over the village, studying the men preparing frantically for the battle, and began her march towards the makeshift jail at the very edge of the village. She had one more stop to make. 

°°°°°°°°°°° 

The crofter's village had no proper dungeon, only a set of wooden cages beneath a decrepit wooden barn. There was no iron or other such metals to hold prisoners in, so a reasonably strong man could break through and escape with relative ease. When the Karstarks took residence in the "cells", ten men had guarded them day and night to prevent such attempts. With Theon, weak as he was, there was no need. 

Asha entered the barn at half past noon, her own pair of guards behind her. They nodded to one of their fellow guards, who removed a key from his thick coat and opened the flimsy padlock. Inside the cramped cell, Theon huddled under two raggedy blankets, mumbling under his breath. His prematurely white hair was scraggly and dry, his clothes no more than rags. He appeared to be preoccupied with whatever he was whispering to himself. Nevertheless, he turned to her as soon as he heard the fragile door creak open. Though his body was broken, his eyes were clear as they had been when he was an ever-smiling boy on Pyke. That, at least, was an improvement from the day they had found him and Lady Arya. He did not smile when he saw her, but he didn't back away, either. 

"Asha," he whispered, a bit uncertain, like he was unclear on whether that was her real name. "They said- there's a battle. Today. With R- with  _ him."  _ Theon hardly ever mentioned Snow, and when he did, he never said his name. 

"Yes, there is. I came to talk. Just in case." She didn't say _if I don't make it back._ But she didn't need to. Theon nodded like he understood perfectly. And he did, better than anyone. The Theon he'd been before might have looked down on his sister, who looked and dressed and acted and fought too much like a man. But this Theon understood what he hadn't before, gaining that knowledge at much too high a cost.

It didn't matter that she would have traded the old, perpetually-grinning Theon for this new one who didn't even have teeth to smile within a heartbeat. But he had made his choices, and he had reaped far more than what he sowed. Now all that was left was to pick up the pieces. She just hoped she would have the opportunity to. 

She knelt onto the dirt floor, wrapping her arms around Theon's skinny shoulders and pulling him to her chest.

Theon leaned into her, the same way he had years past when they would hide in her room as their father and uncles raged at each other. She stroked his thinning hair, and in that moment they both felt very much like the scared children they had once been. He was her baby brother, she was his big sister, and she would protect him from the world.  _ Look how well I did at that.  _

Then he raised his head, eyes cold and hard, and the illusion shattered. His jaw was set, his four-fingered hand holding to her wrist as best it could. When he spoke, it was with a conviction Asha hadn't known he was still capable of. 

"You have to kill him." His voice was stronger than it had been in the days since they had found him and Lady Arya in the snow. "You have to kill him, or bring him back and execute him. I don't want to breathe while he does any longer, and he'll kill you all if you don't. You have to  _ kill him _ ." His grip was surprisingly tight. Asha nodded, and for a second their identical green eyes locked on each other, and they understood each other. Then Asha stood, grabbed the door handle. And hesitated, turning back to her brother. 

"I love you, Theon. You're a better man than you think." She knew he didn't believe it, but he nodded anyway. 

Her final picture of him- maybe her last ever- was the grim, resolute look in his eyes disappearing, the ghost of the old Theon replacing it. For a moment, he was the boy he'd been, nineteen and reckless and desperate to prove himself. For a moment, he was a child on the deck of a ship leaving Pyke, terrified and trying to hide it, looking to his big sister for reassurance she could not give. 

Asha left, and the ghost followed, repeating Theon's words in her mind.

_ You have to kill him. _

°°°°°°°°°°°

Her conversation with Theon replayed through her head as she trudged through the heavy snow. She had made her promise, and fulfill it she would. She had to bring Ramsay Snow to Stannis for execution, or she had to kill him. Either way, it was serving justice. 

Stannis wanted him alive, but Ramsay would never betray his father and spill his plans. Killing him would do all of Westeros a favor.

Asha lined up beside the other soldiers, a few rows ahead of where Stannis sat atop his destrier with his important lords. Alysane was in that line somewhere, angry, and it was Asha's fault. She had to find her.

The snow was falling thick and heavy, preventing anyone who would have stopped Asha as she waded through the line of soldiers, careful to stay out of Stannis's line of sight. She moved up and down the line, searching for Aly. The snow, useful for hiding, was not as helpful for finding people.

_ There. _ She caught a glimpse of a familiar short sword, furs, and a long brown braid, and followed it towards Aly. 

"Alysane!" She whispered, shoving past men and fighting against the wind. Aly's eyes stubbornly refused to meet hers, until Asha shoved her way directly next to her. 

"Asha. What are you doing out of your post?" Her voice was cold. 

"I- I came to apologize. And explain." Alysane raised an eyebrow sceptically, still refusing to meet her eyes. 

"Why? From the time that I've known you, you aren't keen on apologies." Asha flushed. 

"I'm sorry for everything. For saying that, insulting you and your king. For avoiding you. I never meant offense. I didn't want to go into this with you angry at me. I don't want this to be your last impression of me, if it comes to that." Alysane's face softened a bit as Asha laid a hand on her shoulder. The whistling wind blocked their conversation from the soldiers around them.

"And I wanted to-" she was cut off as horns blared in the distance, from their side or Ramsay's she couldn't tell. 

"Asha, you can tell me later. After. Get back to your place, and I'll come find you. I promise." Asha hesitated, but still nodded, disappointed, unsheathing her first axe and hurrying back anyway.  _ She'll fight with me. And if we both survive, I can explain everything.  _ Oddly, the idea of explaining her strange behavior scared her more than the battle. 

The horns blared once more, then again. Asha raised her axe and charged, the battle cries and screams of thousands of men echoing in her ears.

°°°°°°°°°°°

Apart from his son, Roose Bolton had sent the cravens, the weaklings, the very old and very young into battle, keeping the real warriors close to him for the battle at Winterfell. 

While Stannis's men were weary and half-frozen, they were also battle-hardened and tough. The sheer numbers of Bolton's men would have overwhelmed them had they been decent fighters. As it was, Stannis's army cut through Bolton's men like a hot knife through butter, sending great swaths of men fleeing, and even more dead on the ground. 

Asha's axe spun viciously, cutting down man after man as a seemingly endless army swarmed out of the trees.  _ There are so many of them.  _ Asha grunted in pain as an unknown man wearing a mermaid on his breast tore a gash across her forehead, spilling warm blood into her left eye before she buried her axe in his chest.

She didn't know who she was killing, nameless and faceless men who ceased to matter as soon as the light drained from their eyes. She hardly registered the men beside her, as they fought and died and a new warrior sprouted in their place. There were only two people in Asha's mind as she spun and ducked and slashed: Ramsay Snow, and Alysane. Aly had promised to find her, and Asha had promised to find Ramsay. 

Alysane did indeed find her. Asha was backed against a tree by a silver-haired knight, barely parrying his strikes on the edge of her axe, when a blade sprouted from the man's chest. He looked down in surprise, then toppled to the ground. Aly stood in front of her, breathing heavily. They moved on. Asha ignored the pain flaring up in her ankle.

She didn't say a word as they entered a small clearing, clothes and blades already soaked in blood. They were greeted with a horrible sight.

Eight men, all their own, dead on the snow-covered ground, various limbs viciously hacked off of each body. Above them, their killer fought wildly, slashing and tearing and  _ laughing _ as he tore men to pieces like they were rag dolls. A half dozen of his own men surrounded him; though they seemed to be doing next to nothing. Asha vaguely recalled Theon saying they called his men the Bastard's Boys _.  _

He fought like he had learned to swing a sword from a butcher, not a master-at-arms. Perhaps he had. But the viciousness with which he fought served him well. In all her life, all the battles she had endured, Asha had seldom met a man who enjoyed killing as much as the man before her. It was no more than a game to him, like a hunt with his dogs, with humans as his prey. The man was huge, six and a half feet tall, with a massive, hulking figure. He bore the Dreadfort's sigil upon his breast, and wore a helm with the visage of a flayed man. There was a single blood red garnet in his ear. It could only be one man.

Ramsay Snow. 

Asha ran towards him, Aly behind her, as he cut the throat of the last man and once more laughed. Turning towards them, he flipped his flayed-man helmet up so they could see his wide, toothy grin split across his mouth. Besides the men that already lay dead on the ground, the fighting had not reached this small clearing. 

They were alone. Blood rushed in Asha's ears, isolating her worldview to her, Aly, and Ramsay. For a moment, there was silence as the three sized each other up. The wound above Asha's eye burned, along with a half-dozen other injuries she had sustained. Ramsay still wore his unnerving, too-sharp smile across his pale, splotchy face. 

"You. I know you." He was looking right at Asha. "The Greyjoy bitch. My Reek told me  _ all  _ about you." Asha hated him for the way he said that name, so casually, as if Theon didn't flinch every time he heard it, no matter whose mouth it came from. Looking at him, she remembered every half-healed scar on Theon's face like he was standing in front of her. She raised her bloodstained axe higher and took a step towards Ramsay. He didn't miss a beat.

"I came here for the false king, and my Reek, but I suppose two more skins wouldn't hurt." His grin grew wider, before he flipped his helmet down. He charged. 

He was surprisingly fast for such a big man, but clumsy, and his swordsmanship consisted of swinging wildly with his great curved sword. Asha dodged his first strike easily, twisting to the left as his falchion bit into the tree behind her. She swung her axe at his neck as he yanked his blade from the wood, clanging against his helmet before he backed out of her axe's range. She looked to Alysane, but she was preoccupied with one of Ramsay's henchmen, a foul-smelling man with broken teeth.

Ramsay lept at her in her distraction, growling in triumph as she dove away too slowly. Their blades met, falchion sparking against axe, and her weapon spun out of her grasp with a mighty  _ clang.  _ He slammed her into a tree bodily. She felt a painful  _ crack  _ in her chest, like a rib had broken, and an answering  _ crack _ in her head sent a bolt of pain down her body. She managed to pull another axe from her sheath and drive it against his waist, slipping under the plate and gouging a bloody line across his stomach. He growled, more in anger than pain, and tore the axe from her hand, but not before she scored another hit on his arm. Aly had taken care of her enemy, and slashed at Ramsay as Asha danced away from him, reaching for the dirk at her waist.

Spinning away from a wild swing from his falchion, she slashed her dirk across his flayed-man helmet, sending it flying as the flimsy straps broke. Her rib twinged painfully and the wound above her eye burned. 

His bare hands grabbed for the dagger, but she danced away from him as Aly came from behind with a quick strike of her short sword. She screamed with rage as her dirk bit into the splotchy pale flesh of his exposed throat, drawing a thin line of blood as red as the garnet at his ear. He clawed at her arm, hitting her broken rib before she dug the dirk deeper. Forcing back his head, she shoved him against a snow-covered tree, knocking the falchion from his jeweled hands. The dirk pushed deeper, and for the first time, Asha could see fear in his eyes. She smiled viciously, the wound above her eye spilling blood down the left side of her face as she gazed up at his hard grey eyes. Her head was spinning, from adrenaline or her injuries she wasn't sure.

"I don't know half of what you did to my brother, but I know it hurt, and you enjoyed it." The snow was falling thick and heavy, mingling with the blood dripping down her face. "And I know _this_ is going to hurt, _Snow._ " 

Ramsay growled at her, too-pointy teeth poking past his lip. 

"Bloody _bitch."_ He snarled. "I'll skin you alive and feed you to my dogs, bloody ironborn _bitch._ " 

__ Asha grinned. She trailed the dirk up his cheek, slashing a bloody line down his cheek identical to one of Theon's many scars.  _ Theon will enjoy that.  _ His eyes were frenzied, violent in a way she hardly recognized, even among the reavers of her homeland. They reminded her of her uncle Euron, and that served only to enrage her further. 

The dirk moved up and down his face before stopping to hover above his eye. Both of his grey eyes were trained on the point an inch from his pupil, watching it as a wounded animal watches a hunter. It would be so  _ easy  _ for her to drive the knife down, take out his eye. He might even live. Asha wondered if this was how he had felt, all those nights where he had ripped Theon's skin from his body, teeth from his mouth, fingers from his hand. Like he had  _ power.  _ Like he was in control. Asha had no time to ponder over that, as Aly grabbed her shoulder roughly.

"Asha, stop. Stannis has need of him, and he is not like to reveal his father's plans if you've put out his eye." Asha grimaved. _She's_ _right_. Ramsay laughed mockingly, any trace of fear gone.

"Yes, that's right. Run back to your southron king. I'll flay him, him and his false queen and his daughter and his red whore, right after I'm finished with you and my Reek."

Resisting the urge to open his throat, she dropped the dagger to her side and drew away from Ramsay. Her eyes left him for a moment before he took the opening, just as she'd predicted he would. She felt the movement before she saw it, before Alysane's warning hit her ears. In a split second, Ramsay reached for the dirk with his fleshy fingers, just as Asha drew back her gloved fist and drove it between his teeth. His sharp teeth broke the fabric of the glove and drew red lines across her hand as a spray of blood and bone shot from his mouth. Asha's hand stung, but it was worth it. He screamed, punching out blindly, and Asha hit him again.

And again, and again, and again. A punch connected with her stomach and her injured rib, then another, but she hardly noticed. As she struck more and more blows to his ugly face, she swore she heard a crazed laugh from the bastard's mouth. 

The mouth in question was a bloody ruin, at least six teeth missing, jaw fractured, lip torn. Even his nose crushed. But even as he screamed through shattered teeth, he launched himself at her, all six and a half feet.

The only noise that escaped his mouth was a guttural scream as Asha lowered the dirk and shoved it into his gut. She twisted the blade, blood already pouring down her hands. Asha backed away hastily as he collapsed where he stood, toppling forward to the spot where she'd stood a moment earlier. The snow around him turned pink as the sigil on his breastplate with his blood. He wore an expression of pure shock, like he couldn't believe she would dare stab  _ him _ . His cold grey eyes glared at her as he tried to rise, once, then twice, before fading into unconsciousness. 

Around her, men bearing flayed men, towers, and mermen upon their breast slowed in shock as their leader collapsed. Stannis' men took advantage of the confusion, driving them back to flee to their camps. Leaving Ramsay to bleed out upon the ground, Asha returned to the battle. Alysane at her side, they cut a bloody swath through the Dreadfort's men. Dodging a wild spear throw, she vaulted towards a man on horseback, cutting him down before driving her axe through the spear-thrower. Aly laughed as she butchered two men with her short sword, back to back with Asha, who cut the throat of a third. Asha's ankle threatened to collapse under her. In the distance, Asha glimpsed the harsh glow of Stannis's sword, slaying man after man from atop his destrier. 

In moments, the battle was finished. The enemy had fled to their camps, the wood empty save for corpses. And Ramsay. He could not yet be counted among the dead, but from the look of him, he was not far off. 

Around her, the survivors (many, it seemed, at least of Stannis's men) staggered to and fro, bandaging wounds, carting off the dead, and cleaning weapons. At some point, Asha became aware of a bandage wrapped around her forehead. Blood loss from a half dozen wounds and a blow to her head turned her mind hazy. Her rib ached horribly, sending a shot of pain through her with every step. As she stumbled toward Stannis, advancing through the wood and checking on his soldiers, she tripped through the snow. Her fall seemed to take hours. The last thing she heard before blacking out was a familiar voice, shouting her name. 

°°°°°°°°°°°

Her dreams were odd. It was odd that she was having dreams at all; she preferred to leave the possible prophetic visions to her uncle Aeron, dreams included. Of the few dreams she had, this was among the stranger ones.

A dark haired man- no, man was too generous, he was hardly more than a boy- lay in the snow, eyes wide and unseeing. A wolf howled in the distance. 

She saw the same boy splayed in a cramped cell, eyes fixed on some point in the ceiling, face the blue-grey of a corpse. She heard faint murmurs from outside the cell, and the same howling of that wolf. Then the boy's face morphed into Theon's, then Rodrik's, then Maron's. She wondered vaguely how she still remembered her long-dead brothers' faces, if it was truly them at all. 

The dream shifted to one Asha knew well: the cells where Theon was kept, the last place she had seen him. In his place was a much less pleasant face: Ramsay Snow. He rattled at the chains that bound him to the wall, wearing the same smile he had when Asha faced him in battle, though weaker, a bandage around his chest already stained with blood. A monster's smile, not a man's, like some beast was wearing his skin. 

Then he looked up, directly at her, it seemed, and his sharp-toothed grin grew wider. He moved suddenly, lunging, his chains snapping behind him, his hands straining to wrap around her throat. 

Then she woke up, a scream frozen in her throat.

°°°°°°°°°°°

When she woke, she was laying atop a pallet in her tent, two voices whispering tersely beside her. She raised her head as best she could. Her left eye was obscured by a bandage, but she could still make out the speakers: Alysane, and Stannis Baratheon. Huddled in the corner of the tent was Theon, wrists chained together. Shadows outside the tent told her it was night.

Aly's voice was gruff, and it took a moment to realize it was not the ordinary tone of her voice, but rather hoarse from crying. Asha didn't understand why. Stannis's angry tone drew her attention.

"My lords are pressuring me! I must execute him now, or I may lose their support. They want his head, and it is my duty as their liege to deliver it!" Stannis whispered roughly. Neither he nor Alysane realized she had awoken.

"Wait a few more days, at least. Let her say goodbye. She caught the Bastard for you. You owe her this." Asha's breath caught in her throat.  _ They're going to execute Theon. Soon.  _ Emboldened, she mustered the strength to speak.

"You- you can't," she whispered, "can't execute him. Not yet." She was surprised by how weak she sounded. Aly seemed just as shocked. She rushed to her side.

"You're awake! We thought you'd died, the maester gave you too much milk of the poppy. You've been out for three days." Aly shot a glare at Stannis, who looked neither pleased nor displeased, just ground his teeth, as he was wont to do.

"I'm alright. What of Ramsay? Does he live?" Aly growled and fingered her short sword at the mention of his name. 

"Bastard's alive, damn him. Refuses to answer any questions. Just keeps asking for his  _ Reek. _ " Theon shrunk in his chains, a small whimper escaping his mouth. 

"He'll want to see me, you'd better let him. He'll kill you all. He'll feed you to the dogs." He sounded petrified, but Stannis just laughed, though there was no mirth in it.

"I'd welcome him to try. We just decimated his army, sent them running back to their master safe in Winterfell. Roose Bolton is the threat here, not his beast of a son. The Bastard lives, true, but not for long. I am not in the business of allowing murderous bastards to keep their heads." Stannis threw a pointed glance at Theon, his face hard and impassive as a cliff face. "Nor murderous turncloaks." He opened his mouth once more, but was cut off as Theon cried out.

"No! No, you can't call him that, he'll kill you, he'll kill you!" Any progress Theon had made of escaping Ramsay's influence had apparently dissolved when he'd learned Ramsay was in their camps. Asha couldn't blame him. Sitting up as much as possible with her injuries she faced Stannis, her grey eyes locking on his steely blue ones. 

"Your grace," she whispered hoarsely, "Theon knows better than anyone what Bolton's camps are like. He's seen Winterfell. He knows what  _ Roose  _ is like. He holds value to you yet. You can't kill him." Stannis grumbled. 

"What do you suppose I do with him instead? What do I tell my bannermen, who want revenge for Eddard Stark's sons?" 

"Send him to the Wall, with the Stark girl. Your bannermen will understand. They have a much greater prize, one who has inflicted more pain upon them than Theon could dream of. Give them Ramsay's head, and they'll think no more of my brother." Asha hoped she sounded persuasive. She had thought Theon doomed, but maybe there was a chance yet. 

"Asha nearly killed Ramsay Snow, captured him for you, sent his army running. This small boon you owe her. Let him go to the Wall, what harm will it do? Ramsay is far more hated. The men will not care about Theon should they have Snow." Asha shot a grateful look toward Alysane, surprised at her help after everything they'd said the day before. Stannis grimaced.

"They hate Snow, true, but the Northmen have no lack of lust for heads. And this information you speak of, Greyjoy has given all he knows. I have no more use of him." As Asha struggled for words, a new voice spoke up. 

"I- I could… help. Try to remember more. I'm  _ sure _ I have some. Let me remember." Theon's voice was scarce more than a whisper.

"Please, your grace, I beg of you. He has suffered enough under Ramsay Snow. Whatever his crimes, he took his punishment in those dungeons. You need not punish him more." Stannis clenched his jaw.  _ It was a wonder he still had teeth at the rate at which he ground them together. _ Miraculously, after what seemed like hours, he threw up his hands in defeat. 

"Fine. You can have him. Take him to the Wall, with the Stark girl. Interrogate him. Perhaps Lord Snow will have his head off, and I can be rid of the both of you. Let it be said that Stannis Baratheon is a man who pays his debts." Without another word, he stormed out of the cabin. 

With all the strength that remained to her, Asha rose from the cot. Her breath was painful and labored from a broken rib, but with Aly's help she reached where Theon sat crouched like a mouse. 

"What does it mean? I'll go to the wall?" He whispered, maimed hands clutching weakly at her wrists. 

"It means you aren't going to die. Not here, not now. You'll go to the Wall, live out your life as a crow." He laid his head against her chest, quiet sobs coming from his maimed throat, though she did not know if they were tears of joy or disappointment. Within moments, she was crying as well.  _ We won. I saved him.  _ She'd thought Theon's life forfeit when he arrived at Stannis's camp in chains, but here he was.  _ A second chance. _

°°°°°°°°°°°

Asha was bedridden for the better part of a week; even after she was strong enough to rise, she had to use a crutch so as to not to aggravate her rib. Still, she had it better than many others. None of her various wounds were fatal, unlike dozens of men who had perished in the battle. And there were benefits to her confinement in the cabin. 

Alysane could hardly avoid her, given she was stuck in the cabin all hours of the day, but she did her best. But Asha was nothing if not diligent. 

The camps had been devoid of laughter since the battle, and the announcement that they would march on Winterfell on the morrow had done nothing to improve that situation. So Asha did what she did best: she cracked jokes, to any passing man, to Theon, to Aly, especially Aly. Asha had done her best to avoid the conversation she had promised, on the pretext that she needed her rest, but honestly, she was scared. If she could not confess her true feelings to Aly, she could at least make her laugh, and that she did.

In the early days of her recovery, where she slipped in and out of nausea and unconsciousness, she had mumbled her japes to anyone who passed, Alysane or otherwise. More oft than not it was a stranger, but Asha told them all the same. Once she had even made Theon laugh. It was little more than one dry chuckle, there and then gone, but she treasured it all the same. Aly had been different; a smothered laugh followed every stupid joke out of Asha's mouth, even as Alysane tried to avoid her. 

It was Aly who hovered over her now, setting a bowl of broth and chunks of bony fish beside her and stopping to run her fingers through Asha's thick hair. She must've thought her asleep, else she would not have stopped so close. When Asha's eyes opened, Aly wore a soft sad smile, which quickly faded as she slid back and tried to pretend she had simply been dropping off her meager meal. Asha caught her hand with the most strength she'd felt in days and turned to sit up on the cot.

"Wait," she whispered, voice hoarse with disuse, "don't leave." Aly hesitated, but stayed in place. Asha struggled to find the right words. 

"Aly, I-I meant no offense. I should not have avoided you-" a hacking cough interrupted her speech-"nor questioned your loyalties toward the king. I was simply…. ashamed, and in my shame I did things I regret. Forgive me." 

"Lady Greyjoy-" she began but Asha cut her off.

"Don't-don't call me that. You never have before. Don't start now." Asha pleaded, locking eyes with Aly.

"Asha. I only meant to ask, what are you ashamed of? You… you have nothing to be guilty for. You fight bravely, as good as any. You are honorable, and good. Why else would I have persuaded Stannis to spare you, or your brother?" Aly's face was a mask Asha could not read. Did she truly mean what she was saying, or was she simply trying to reassure her?

"It was not any of that I felt guilty for. I…" the words seemed to stick in her throat, threatening to to surge up like bile. "I was ashamed of my feelings. The feelings I have…. for you." Asha hardly knew what she was saying, but pushed forward all the same. "I love you, Alysane, and that shamed me. I'm sorry. I know you will not feel the same, but I cannot hide it any longer." She struggled to meet Aly's eyes. Asha searched her face and saw incredulousness.  _ I've done it, I've ruined everything. Oh, Asha, you fool.  _

For a moment that felt like eternity Alysane did not speak, just looked, and looked, a dazed light shining from her eyes. Asha more than seriously considered burying her face in her cot and not moving until she left. She half-expected Aly to rage, or weep, or just leave. Instead, she did something very different. 

She knelt on the dirt floor beside Asha's cot, bringing her down to Asha's level. Strong, callused hands brushed gently against her cheek before resting on the back of her neck. Asha's heart was beating a manic drum in her chest when Aly leaned in, close enough that she could see her breath steam in the cold air. The only thing in her world right then was the woman in front of her, the Northern woman, the mother, the warrior, that she loved. 

She kissed Asha softly at first, a light touch on her lips. Then Asha raised her arms, tangling her fingers in Aly's thick hair, tasting salt on her lips, and she pressed her back into the wall behind them, Asha's legs coming up to wrap around her waist. She kissed her again, and again, and again, fiercely, hungrily, and for the moment there were no wounds, no Ramsay, no war, no winter. Just the two of them on Asha's cot, alone, and for that moment, that was enough.

°°°°°°°°°°°

Asha watched as the whole of the camp packed up and loaded everything they could carry onto what remained of their horses and carts from the doorway of her cabin. Alysane slept behind her. Their cabin was stripped bare, everything they had packed and waiting for their departure at the corner of the camp. They could leave whenever they wanted, take Theon and the Stark girl with them, but Asha found she almost did not want to leave. There was some illusion of safety here, the idea that this little village could protect them from the dangers of the far North and the Wall. But it was foolish to think that there could be safety while Roose Bolton waited in Winterfell.

She limped back to their cot, the first rays of dawn peaking through the murky glass of the windows above Aly's head. Her cane that she'd taken to using until her injuries fully healed clattered to the floor as she collapsed on the cot beside Aly. 

Aly's eyes opened as the sunlight and rough, hushed voices filtered through the room. She woke suddenly, tossing and turning over in the tiny bed, and turned to Asha. She didn't look as though she had just woken; she never did. Always alert, always ready, was the way of the Northmen, and the way of the Iron Islands as well. Nevertheless, she did not rise. Instead, she did something Asha did not expect: she wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer. Almost involuntary, Asha shrunk away from her, leaning out of her embrace. She turned, quickly, but not so fast as to escape the hurt on Aly's face. 

"Asha," she whispered hoarsely, "why…" her voice trailed off. "Why do you… do you not want this? Me?" Asha did not know what to say. She was unprepared for this. Qarl had been… he'd been fun, he'd been a comfort, for a time, but he'd never been  _ love _ . Even now, Asha struggled with the word. And, as always, there was a part of her that said it-they- had never happened.

"I do, I just… you seemed too good to be true. You were a fever dream, or something." Asha avoided her eyes. Silence, for a moment, then the shadow of a whisper.

"I'm not." She murmured, and Asha felt a rush of blood in her ears as she pulled her over, noses brushing together. "I'm real." Her gaze was firm, strong as her grip on Asha's arm, and Asha could have kissed her. 

And then she did. 

It was slower, kinder, almost, than last night's, and Asha regretted finally pulling away. "When did you know? She said suddenly. "When did you know that you wanted me? I didn't know how to tell you, so I didn't. When did you know it was the right time?"

"That night," Asha whispered into Alysane's neck, "after the executions. I knew then. I thought of how you smelled of the North. Wood and winter and wolves. I couldn't get you out of my head." Alysane chuckled quietly. 

"Nor I you." She twirled a lock of Asha's choppy hair around her callused finger. "You smell of Pyke. Saltwater and blood. That scent would terrify any sane inhabitant of Bear Island. Every cub grows up fearing the Iron Fleet and the sea. Odd, how I have come to love it." Asha grinned, and leaned in for another kiss. 

Before she could, a great horn sounded throughout the camp, blaring through wooden walls with the force of a stampeding army. Asha shot out of bed as best she could with her injured ribs, Aly close behind her as she threw the cabin door open. Around them, men ran too and fro, a sense of urgency in them that had not been there previously. 

Asha yanked a passing squire away from his tired knight. The boy looked terrified, his teeth chattering as the helm he was polishing dropped from his hands.

"Boy, what's happening? I thought we weren't leaving until noon." The boy wasted no time. 

"It's Bolton, I mean, the Bastard. He escaped. The men came to feed him, in the cells, and they found his guards dead. He was gone, with his men." Asha swore, and shoved him away.

"Theon and the Stark girl," she said, suddenly worried, "he wouldn't have tried to take them with him, would he?" The two hurried toward Theon's cabin.

His guards were in place, and threw their spears together in an "x" when they saw Asha. One of them, an older man with a sprinkling of silver in his dark hair, addressed them, voice hard as the steel he carried.

"You cannot see him, m'lady. He and Lady Stark are safe, but we have orders to keep him under close watch until the time comes for him to leave." 

Asha gritted her teeth, reaching for the dagger strapped to her waist. Aly grabbed her hand before she could. The other guard, a younger man, wearing Stannis's fiery device on his breast, shifted his spear so it pointed directly at her. Asha was tempted to push past him anyway, but a gravelly voice behind her stopped her in her tracks. 

"Let her in." Said Stannis Baratheon, in a tone that said he would not stand for disagreement. The two men parted hastily, the older one pulling the door open with a loud  _ screeeeech.  _ Asha half-marched, half-hobbled into the cabin, Stannis behind her. 

Theon was sitting as best he could, wrists chained to the bed frame. His empty, dazed eyes hardly seemed to register them walking in. The Stark girl lay face down on her cot, snoring softly. Stannis strode briskly past Asha before she could move, seizing Theon by the shoulder and forcing him to look him in the eyes. The steel at his belt glittered darkly. 

"Wake the girl. Gather your things and be ready to leave in one hour. You must leave for the wall immediately." Theon looked as though he'd been woken from a dream. He blinked, his eyes clearing, and stood to gather their meager possessions. He yanked helplessly at his chains until Aly produced a set of iron keys. The girl slept on, unaware of the movement around her.

"Why now?" Whispered Theon, struggling to pack their items with missing fingers. "I thought we left at midday. When you had all left." The king was stone faced, Ramsay's escape hanging over him like some dark specter. 

"The Bastard of Bolton. He's escaped, killed six of my men in the process. We don't know where he is. The tracks disappear a half mile from the village. He could be North or South. Winterfell or the Wall. If he is in the North, I intend for you to find him." Theon was plainly horror-struck, and it was only Asha's arm under his shoulders that prevented him from collapsing onto his cot. Stannis plowed on, unaware or uncaring.

"When you go North, I need you to do something for me." It was Alysane who spoke.

"Tell us what you would have of us, Your Grace." 

The three of them sat in silence as the King laid out his terms.

°°°°°°°°°°°

Asha had seen the girl but twice, once visiting the maester's tent to check on Theon. Her face had been wrapped in bandages, so still Asha had thought she was dead. The second time, she had been fast asleep in her cabin she shared with Theon, the same injuries littering her body. The girl standing before her was not in much better condition. Stick thin and scrawny, and no more than ten-and-five, her warm brown skin covered in a myriad of bruises and half-healed scars. The largest ran up her nose, a mess of white scar tissue and ruined skin. Asha recognized the same empty, absent look in her brown eyes that she often saw in Theon's. She wore a heavy wool cloak that was far too big for her short stature. The girl hung close to Theon at all times, and would latch herself to his arm at any loud noise. She never spoke unless spoken too first. Even the horses seemed to scare her, though she soon adjusted to them, growing so confident as to mount one herself.

Stannis had provided two horses for the journey, one for Asha and Alysanne, one for Theon and Arya. He could spare no men for the journey, trusting Alysane to keep them in check. He needn't worry; Theon wouldn't last a day on his own, and Asha would never abandon her brother. 

Stannis had made his terms clear: Aly, and Asha would escort Theon and Arya to the wall, collecting any and all information they could from them. They would find Ramsay Snow, and deal with him whoever they saw fit, if Baratheon's own men did not find him first. Stannis meant bring him back alive; Asha planned to deal with him in a more permanent way. If they failed to locate Ramsay, or the men Stannis would be sending after him did, Theon would be executed. Then the two would depart for the Winterfell-bound army and inform them of everything they knew. If Theon resisted in any way he would be executed.

Fair terms, all things considered. Stannis could have simply reneged on his promise, given Theon to his Northmen to compensate for the loss of the Bastard. Asha would not have begrudged him entirely had he done so. Still, it was best that they left in haste, before Stannis changed his mind, or the Northmen decided they did not need the King's approval to tear her brother limb from limb. 

It was in the early hours of the morning, when sunlight still hid beneath the clouds and darkness still obscured the black wood where they had fought the Bastard's men when they departed the crofter's village for the Wall. The four of them left in silence, snow muffling the steps of their horses. Asha fumbled with the map Stannis had given them. The Wall was farther north than Winterfell, and they'd have to avoid the ruined castle if they had any hope of making it safely to the Wall. Luckily, the size of their party allowed them to stay out of sight, and make it to the Wall in a fortnight, weeks faster than the journey would usually take. Regrettably, the battle at Winterfell would be long over by the time they could return to Stannis. Asha would not have the pleasure of killing Snow herself, as she should have if she'd taken her chance in the crofter's village. 

Still, if losing her chance at Ramsay was the price for Theon's life, it was one she would gladly pay a thousand times over. 

Alysanne wrapped her arms around Asha's waist and leaned on her shoulder. She smiled slightly and looked over to where the girl sat curled against Theon in a similar manner. Asha gripped the reins of her horse tighter, digging her feet into the beast's sides, urging it faster. She looked to the snow-covered wood in front of them, imagining Winterfell, Castle Black, and the Wall. Imagining another life for her brother. 

Despite everything that had happened, all the odds stacked against them, she grinned as they descended into the wood, and, for a moment, she saw a smile on Theon's face. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna be part of a series cause Ramsay was supposed to die in this fic b4 i realized it doesn't make narrative sense and I am gonna kill Ramsay on GOD  
> visit me on tumblr @melcersei <333


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